


worse things to do than victor

by neuroglam



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (maybe) BPD, Angst, M/M, Victuuri divorce, Yuri Plisetsky can't drink, but it's ok in the end, for Victurio's standard of ok anyway, there's drama and no one fucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 17:38:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13486455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neuroglam/pseuds/neuroglam
Summary: “When you say things like that,” he tries, “do you say it ‘cause you think it’s something I’d like, or ‘cause it’s actually true?”“Yes,” Victor rumbles in the dark and pulls him close to his chest.





	worse things to do than victor

“Have you ever felt like you’ve got no idea what to do with your life?” Yuri asks as he stirs his latte. They’re at Starbucks, in Piter, and Victor’s here ‘cause Yuri asked him. He doesn’t know why he thought talking to Victor would solve any of his problems; so far, stupid Victor’s not given him any advice, he’s just looking at Yuri patiently, waiting for him to talk.

“Well?” Yuri asks. “Have you?”

From the other end of the table, Victor watches him with a tilt in his head. “I have. In fact, I may be wondering what to do with my life right now.” He raises his paper cup: Americano. Yuri knows for a fact that Victor hates Americano; he thinks it's too bitter.

Victor sips. And Yuri sees it: the reason why Victor’s been kind of odd ever since he stepped out of the metro and they walked here together. The wedding ring is gone.

Yuri’s eyes widen, his mouth hangs open. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s been so used to Victor-and-Katsudon—all over each other, always, ever since the fucking day when Katsudon first got drunk and Yuri hated his guts for how Victor watched him. He’d never thought this would happen: Victor across from him, doing his usual Victor thing without a ring on.

Yuri sighs. He hadn’t even known something was going on.

Suddenly, he doesn’t want to talk about retirement. Because what happened? Are they broken up? Where will Victor live now, is he coming back to Russia? Where are his things?

“Where are your things?” Yuri asks and Victor chuckles a little before sipping on his coffee. 

“Look, old man, let me at least get you some milk, yeah?”

“My things,” Victor says and sips again, “are being shipped to your apartment. I know, awfully presumptuous of me. But you will take me in, won’t you, Yurka? For old time’s sake.”

Yuri wants to stab Victor with a fork. Because this asshole _knew_. Yuri’d hoped that if nothing else, he’s got his dignity left, but apparently not: Victor’d picked up, moved to Japan, married that fucking fat loser—and all this entire fucking time, he _knew_.

Well, fuck Victor.

“Now, now, Yur, don’t be mad at me-”

And Yuri’s about to go off on him, he really is, apart from how Victor’s hand reaches across the table and closes over his, still warm from holding the coffee and _without a ring on_.

“I don’t have space for all your shit,” Yuri grumbles and pulls his hand away.

Victor, the asshole, has the gall to look unhappy. It’s a good thing you don’t get forks with your coffee at Starbucks.

“What, are you looking for a re-bound?” Yuri hisses, hurt and sarcastic, because he’s never felt this humiliated or this taken for granted. “What did you think? That I’m so pathetic you just need to waltz back to Piter and I’ll spread my legs for you, all adoration and gratitude because you’ve finally condescended to-” Yuri’s voice chokes in his throat.

“Yurka, Yurka, no...” Victor placates, and his hand is over Yuri’s again and it makes everything worse. “I’m not here for that.”

“Whatever,” Yuri says and looks away. He doesn’t want Victor to look at him cry. But he doesn’t pull his hand away either.

“When all is said and done, you’re the one person I trust. You’re who I want to hole up with when my life is going to hell.” Really now, Yuri thinks. But Victor sounds so damn persuasive. “We don’t talk much, but you called _me_ when you needed someone to talk to; Yurka, can’t you see that I’m the same? That’s why I’m here. You’re home to me, too.”

The asshole’s voice is calm and almost tender, and Yuri is almost placated; he wants so hard to believe. But he knows it’s bullshit. Victor might even believe himself when it spouts all of this crap, but Yuri knows.

Home.

What the fuck does Victor know about home.

“Go stay at a fucking hotel,” Yuri says and gets up, shrugging his parka on. “And don’t call me.” He grabs his coffee as he heads out.

Outside, the winter wind chills the wet tracks on his face.

 

He should’ve expected Victor to go after him, to chase him to the fucking steps of the fucking metro station. Because such is Yuri Plisetsky’s luck when it comes to Victor: complete crap.

“Yurka! Yurka, wait!” Victor says and wraps his hands around him from behind.

“I hate you, old man. I fucking hate you,” Yuri hiccoughs as he relaxes into him.

Stupid Victor. In spite of the pouch and the receding hair, Yuri still wants. To be held. To be close. To be near. He doesn’t know what he wants. What he does know is that, fuck his life.

“Take me home with you, Yurka. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“You fucking idiot,” Yuri says and disentangles himself. “Let’s go, then. Just, stop fucking hitting on me. If you need a place to stay, you can stay. There’s no need for any of this shit.”

Yuri walks ahead, quick and determined, and Victor follows him slightly to the side. It’s okay. It’s good. Yuri is not sure he wants to talk to him yet.

 

They get on the train and settle next to each other on the plastic bench. It’s three PM on a Tuesday so the car is almost empty. Their legs touch, and it’s weird—and probably all kinds of misguided—but the only thing it’s not is awkward. They’ve done this before, existing quietly next to each other on their way somewhere: on the metro, yes, but also at airports, on buses, vans. It’s been a long time, but their bodies still remember.

Yuri’s body remembers, at least.

Victor’s eyes are closed, head tilted against the window. Yuri studies him: the bald spot, even more clearly visible now that Victor’s leaning back, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Purple circles. His neck and his jaw, slightly saggy, slightly scruffy. _I’ll make it worth your while_. Yuri could stretch his hand and touch him.

Absently, he wonders whether he’s ever had a worse idea in his life.

Taking off to follow him to fucking Hasetsu probably counts. Or that time when he’d gotten drunk and tried to get him to play strip poker. Or—

Yuri sighs. He seems to be all bad ideas when it comes to Victor.

In the grand scheme of things, what’s one more.

It is so easy to turn slightly and slide an arm behind Victor’s back, to scoot over and cuddle into him. Yuri puts his head on his shoulder. There. No going back now.

Victor sighs deeply and sags into the seat. This part isn’t an act: Victor is relieved. Actually, genuinely relaxed for the first time since they met today—and the most fucked up part is, if it wasn’t for this one moment of being tired and unguarded, Yuri wouldn’t have known that Victor, apparently, had needed comfort.

That he’d been worried Yuri would reject him.

 _Fucking idiot_ , Yuri thinks as he breathes in the mix of Victor’s smell and his cologne.

“Do you have any booze at your place?” Victor asks quietly. The train clangs as Yuri tries to parse the question.

“No. I don’t.”

“Good,” Victor says and wraps a hand around his shoulders.

 

At home, Yuri leaves Victor on the couch and goes to make stir-fry. He wants to ask so many things. Like, what’s going on? You don’t have your ring on, but are you guys done or are you _done_ -done? Will you run out on me as soon as he calls?

He goes back to the living room with two heaping plates and a mind to ask, but Victor can’t tell him anything because he’s out cold, legs sprawled and mouth open.

Yuri chews on his stir-fry and stares at him: belly pouch, crumpled shirt disappearing into belted khakis. Screw Hasetsu and strip poker. This right here is the worst idea ever.

“Come on, old man,” he says as he gets up and leaves his empty plate on the table. “If you’re not going to eat, get undressed and get into bed.”

Victor mumbles something about sleeping here, and, no. Yuri knows exactly how many surgeries Victor’s had. He's _not_ sleeping on the couch.

 

They lie next to each other in the dark—Victor, apparently, fucking _snores_.

Yuri stares at the ceiling and tries to decide if he’s going to sleep with him. Victor can say whatever he wants, but this _is_ a fucking rebound. It’s about Victor needing a place to stay and wanting to be somewhere he’s accepted and wanted. Maybe it’s a little bit about nostalgia, too. It’s not about actually being with Yuri, and Yuri knows this.

Victor’s next snore is so deep it startles him.

Yuri elbows him in the side.

Victor grunts, makes a disgusting smacking sound with his lips, and rolls over.

 _Oh, who am I fucking kidding_ , Yuri thinks and spoons him from behind. Just who is taking advantage of whom, they’re going to have to sort out in the morning.

 

Things Yuri discovers about Victor over the next three weeks, during which they Don’t Kiss At All:

  * Victor doesn’t snore when he’s sleeping on his side (spooning helps).
  * Victor is probably broke. He putters around the house when Yuri is out and tries to cook with whatever's in the fridge, but he doesn’t go out to buy anything.
  * Victor is a pack-rat. Stacks and stacks of boxes arrive, and they’re full of absolute crap: old-fashioned suits that don’t fit, stained costumes, ties with the price tag still on. “Can you take out what you actually use and re-box the rest?” Yuri says, exasperated. He wasn’t lying when he said there isn’t space. Victor just smiles.



When nothing’s been done about Victor’s piles of junk for two weeks, Yuri sits in the middle of the floor and sorts through it himself. Victor hides: in the kitchen, in the bathroom, in the bedroom, supposedly taking a nap. There’s no order to anything; it looks like stuff’s just been thrown in, taken from wherever it was. It starts dawning to Yuri that Victor probably didn’t pack this, and it wasn’t the movers either. Yuri contemplates the image of Yuuri Katsuki piling Victor’s crap in boxes instead of throwing it out to the curb. It does sound like a Katsudon thing to do.

Yuri’s starting to see why Katsudon did it, too. Victor never actually _talks_ about shit; he avoids everything that makes him uncomfortable with meaningless platitudes and that fucking smile of his. It’s _infuriating_. Yuri even question his decision to fuck Victor. Once. At least he did until it was bed time and Victor cuddled next to him.

Speaking of cuddling, Victor has stopped hitting on him, but he’s all over Yuri in every other way, every chance he gets _._ Yuri wonders whose benefit he’s doing it for: his own, or Yuri’s.

 

Victor turns out to be easy to live with. It’s nice, but at the same time, all the food that’s ever put in front of him is great, he’s excited about doing anything Yuri suggests, and he hasn’t yet said a single thing one can disagree with. He doesn’t answer Yuri’s questions, either. He makes it seem like he has and masterfully redirects the conversation. And smiles. Always smiles.

 

Yuri puts whatever he deems are Victor’s necessities in the wardrobe. The rest of the things are boxed up and stacked against the bedroom wall—this time in fewer boxes, now that everything’s folded.

Victor never says anything. There’s stir-fry and cuddles on the living room couch, and spooning in bed, and Yuri’s almost certain that if he kisses Victor, Victor will kiss back. Yuri’s pretty much decided he’ll fuck Victor. But something is stopping him, and it’s not the rebound thing or not being sure whether Victor’s actually done with Katsudon.

“Would you hold me if I didn’t want to?” Yuri asks one night, because as much as he’s enjoying all of this, the perfect boyfriend act is making him want to kill Victor a little.

“Of course I wouldn’t—not if you didn’t want to.” Victor says, no nonsense. “Why would I be forcing hugs on you?”

It’s not what Yuri asked. Victor’s not answering the question. Again. “Do you even want me?” He snaps, because this is fucking annoying—he gets up from where they’re cuddling on the couch, extricates himself-

“Of course I want you, Yurka.” Victor looks up, and Yuri just feels… eerie. Like some smiling alien has moved into Victor’s body and is going through the motions. “But you told me not to hit on you, right? If you’ve changed your mind, you should let me know!” Victor says.

So calm and reasonable. But where in all of this is fucking Victor?? His husband just kicked him out, and he came to Piter and he simply… stepped into Yuri’s life, cooking and cuddling and watching movies on the couch-

“Don’t be mad, now,” Victor says, and Yuri fucking seethes, because ten years ago he would have given life and limb for Victor to have focused on him like this: to care to notice him, to placate him. “Come back here and tell me what you want.” Victor spreads his arms, inviting him back to the couch.

And it’s so tempting—so, so tempting—to sink into the hug and act the other half to this charade. “I’ll tell you what I want,” he says, still mad, and still standing. “I want the actual Victor. Not whoever this is that you’ve decided to play at.”

“But this is the actual Victor!” the asshole says, glib, like nothing much has happened, like nothing is a big deal.

Yuri can’t. He turns away and walks off; closes the bedroom door between himself and that conversation and curs up under the blankets.

 

Victor sleeps on the couch that night and he’s still asleep (or pretending to be) by the time Yuri walks out the next morning.

“You used to fuck Victor,” Yuri DMs Chris on his way to the rink.

It doesn’t take long for Chris to text back. “Well, hello to you, too! How have you been? Long time no see!”

Fair enough, but there’s no one else Yuri can talk to. “Was he always like this?” he writes and presses send before he can think better.

Dots move at the bottom of the chat box. Yuri stares at them like he can will Chris to write faster. Doesn’t work.

“Is that where he is, then?” Chris writes eventually. “With you?”

“Yes,” Yuri writes back. “And he’s acting weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Weird like he didn’t just get kicked out by his husband, and like we’ve been married for ten years. And he won’t stop.”

The dots move back and forth again. “My best guess,” Chris says and drops a Wikipedia link. “Obviously, I don’t know for sure. I don’t know if he’s ever been diagnosed, either.”

Yuri clicks it.

Borderline Personality Disorder.

He scrolls down as he walks, and there’s lots of complicated English—identity something something, intense fear of abandonment. Then his eyes stop. _Self-harm_. “Shit,” Yuri says to the empty morning sidewalk, and turns back. There’s no need to worry or to panic, just… he’ll make sure.

He’ll just make sure.

Victor’s sitting on the couch, awake now, with his arms along the backrest and his eyes on the ceiling. Yuri exhales. He didn’t realize how tense he’d been until the tension left his body.

“Hey,” Yuri says as he walks into the living room with his shoes still on. “I came back to tell you. You can stay as long as you need to. I like you here. I like cuddling with you, too, but… it’s not... You can stay anyways, even if we don’t.”

Victor looks at him, and for once, Yuri can’t tell what’s in his eyes.

“I think you should go to therapy, though,” he presses on. “If you need me to, I can pay for that. And I can help you find someone.”

Victor doesn’t say anything. It’s kind of awkward. “Look, I need to be off to the rink now, but… think about it. And cook dinner, will you? I’m sick of stir-fry, I want something… nicer. There’s cash in the drawer, if you need to get groceries, take from that. I’ll see you tonight, yeah?”

He turns around and he’s out the door as soon as he can. He jogs down the stairs, even though he doesn’t have to. Something about what just happened makes him want to put distance between himself and that living room—between himself and Victor, whose compulsion to please will hopefully manifest in a convoluted pot roast and not in slashed wrists, or worse.

 

He comes back to the best smell ever, and he’s relieved. Victor’s cooked dinner: an actual, proper one, with the kitchen table actually set out with wine glasses and shit. Whatever’s roasting is still in the oven but it looks brown, like it’s almost ready. Victor’s at the kitchen counter, tossing up a salad. He’s even dug up an apron from somewhere—white and red checkered one, with frills.

 _Make it worth your while_ , runs through Yuri’s head in Victor’s voice.

Before he has the chance to follow up that train of thought, Victor looks around and smiles at him.

“It smells nice,” Yuri says. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Victor says quietly. He leaves the salad bowl in the middle of the table, serving spoons sticking out, and goes back to rinse his hands. “I have a present for you,” he tells the sink.

“Oh?” _Present?_

Victor turns back to him and the fucking smile is back on, bright and cheerful. “Do you want to see?”

Yuri follows him to the bedroom, and there she is, sleeping in the middle of their duvet in the smallest, fluffiest coil. “You got me a kitten!” Yuri cannot help but be excited; she’s white and tiny, a ragdoll like Potya. He’s on the bed immediately, petting her on the head with his index finger. Yuri’s been wanting a cat; he even posted on Instagram about it—about how bummed out he was that he couldn’t adopt one given that he lives alone. And Victor read it, and he got him a kitten. Yuri feels warm.

“If I’m sticking around, I can feed her when you travel,” Victor says.

Right. This is what it’s about, then, Victor appeasing his own fear of abandonment. Making himself necessary so he’s hard to dump. It’d been so nice to forget for a moment that none of this—Victor being here, the dinners, the cuddles on the couch— is actually about loving _him_.

“Please don’t be mad at me, Yurka.”

Victor sits behind him on the bed and wraps his hands around him, holds him close.

“I’m not mad,” Yuri says, and doesn’t cry.

 

“You just have to know how to use it,” Yakov tells Yuri over stir-fried chicken at the small Chinese place next to the rink. “Make it clear to him what you want him to achieve, where the goalposts are. That way he knows—as long as he’s done what he’s supposed to do, he’s fine. No one’s mad at anyone, no one wants to get rid of him, no one’s trying to replace him.”

Yuri listens, mouth flat, and yeah—it makes sense now. Yakov’s been coaching Victor since he was seven, same as Yuri, and he’s taught him very well that any security he’s got depends on his performance. Yakov’s little achieving machine—hit all the marks, got all the medals.

“That’s such a load of crap,” Yuri says. Yakov is no longer his coach. There’s no need to mince words.

“It’s a kindness, Yura. If you give him rules, he doesn’t need to spend all his time worrying over silly things. He has an easy way to check: am I meeting the parameters I’ve been given? Yes? Then I’m fine.”

A kindness. Right. So what happens if Victor falls short?

The thing is, with Yakov, he knows what would have happened. Russian skating is cut-throat. There’s always young hopefuls lined up out the door.

 

He’s pensive that night on the train home. He wants to fix it all for Victor, wants Victor to be okay. But Victor is almost forty. Can a forty-year-old man change? Something tells him that Katsudon probably spent the last ten years trying to change him before giving it up for a bad job.

So if they’re going to do this thing, him and Victor, Yuri needs to be OK with Victor being… this. Fake and guarded, insincere smile on. He needs to be okay with never feeling truly connected to Victor. Okay with the fact that he won’t be a lover or an equal—he’d be a pacifier.

What Victor uses to keep bad feelings at bay.

 

He hasn’t resolved anything by the time he’s trudging slowly up the steps of his metro station. He's not sure this _can_ be resolved, let alone over a metro ride.

The elevator pulls up to his floor and he absentmindedly wonders what Victor’s cooked tonight.

Except when he unlocks his door and stumbles through, Yuuri Katsuki is in the middle of his living room, waving his hands around and talking at Victor in Japanese.

Yuri slams the door. “Get out,” he says as he dumps his backpack. “This is my house. If the two of you need to sort out your marriage, kindly do it somewhere else.” He’s not fifteen any more, and he’s _done_ with this shit. “I’m going out, and when I’m back in fifteen minutes, I’d appreciate it if you weren’t here.” Then he does exactly that—turns around and walks out with his hood over his head and his hands down his pockets.

 

It’s not fifteen minutes, it’s more like half an hour. Yuri wants to be positively, absolutely certain that he’s not going to come back to his building to see them walking out hand in hand, being lovey-dovey with each other. He spends it on the steps of the convenience store with a bottle of vodka he bought. He shouldn’t drink when it’s training season, not when he’s got to be at the rink tomorrow, but fuck it. This is a special occasion.

There’s two things Yuri realizes. First, he sucks at drinking. The fucking thing burns his throat, so he makes faces when he swallows—until a guy in a dirty hand-knit hat and an army surplus jacket walking out of the store with a bottle in each arm tells him, “Practice, boy, it’s a skill that’ll last you for life!”

Wino guy walks round the corner before Yuri can tell him to go fuck himself, but Yuri’s not the type to be looked down on or to back down from a challenge. He starts taking bigger sips and tries to swallow without wrinkling his nose.

Three fingers into the bottle, it’s going better. Also, Yuri figures out the second thing. He doesn’t give a fuck how much of a mess Victor is. There’s nothing like Yuuri Katsuki in the middle of his living room to make him realize that he wants Victor to be _his_.

Well. Too little, too late. Anyway. It’s time to face the music.

Yuri gets up and plods back to his building. He’s in no hurry to face his empty apartment. The hugs were nice, though, while they lasted. And he’s got a cat now. Cats make everything worth it.

In the elevator, he wipes his mouth from another sip he doesn’t feel and finds himself sad. It would’ve been nice to know what it’s like to kiss Victor. To have pretended, just one time, that it's real.

His door is unlocked, so he shuffles in, stumbling slightly as he tries to toe off his shoes. Weird: he didn’t drink that much, no more than… about a third of the bottle? He lifts it up in front of his face and peers at it.

Then he hears footsteps, and a sigh, and there’s arms wrapping around him, and Victor’s _here here here_ except that he’s not—he takes the bottle from Yuri and sets off towards the kitchen.

Slightly dazed, Yuri follows.

Victor’s standing by the sink, mouth in a tight line, and he’s pouring the vodka down the drain. Yuri walks to him and clutches onto him, because Victor is _here_ and Yuri thought he wouldn’t be—that’s how life is, people leave and people die and Potya dies too and Otabek gets married because his parents want him to and Victor goes to Japan and fucking _Onsen on Ice_ -

Victor is here, and Yuri is drunk, and for one fucking time in his life, he is happy.

“You didn’t go.” He reaches for the bottle and pulls it up for another swig. There’s still some left.

“No, Yurka, no,” Victor says as he takes it back. “Fuck it.” He sounds sad and tired, and it confuses Yuri, because everything's finally OK now-

Victor downs the rest of the vodka; takes it all in with big, thirsty gulps. A little bit leaks down his throat. “Fuck,” Victor says when the empty bottle hits the counter.

They stay like this for a while, one of Victor’s hands around Yuri, the other holding the neck of the bottle.

“I thought you’d go with him,” Yuri mumbles against Victor’s shirt. “You always go with him. You’ve always loved him more than me.”

“No,” Victor declares, and he’s _hateful_ , the sort of hate resentment calcifies into if you keep swallowing it down. Yuri would know—he’s always been an angry person. With anger, he’s an expert. He just didn’t expect it from Victor, not when all he ever sees is the smile.

“I tried so hard to make him happy,” Victor says. “Whoever that ‘real Victor’ was that he wanted to see, I was never good enough at playing that guy.” Now he's not angry: just tired and sad.

“This is the real Victor,” Yuri says, his face mashed into Victor’s side. It’s the Victor that’s got cracks and hates his husband; the one that wants to gulp down booze like it’s water and pours vodka down the sink so Yuri doesn’t end up like him.

Yuri holds him tightly and wonders if one day Victor will hate him like he hates Yuuri.

Because, in this way, he and Katsudon are the same. Yuri, too, just wants Victor to be Victor.

 

Victor’s lips are so soft against his when they finally tumble into bed. _All of Victor_ is soft against him, and they kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Yuri wonders why he ever resisted this; there’s a thirst being slaked in him, a parched craving getting its first drops of rain in the middle of his chest—and it’s because Victor doesn’t push, doesn’t go for number one, isn’t a selfish asshole—just notices what Yuri needs and lets him take his time—and Yuri’s never felt so cared for, or so loved.

Because, yes, this may be something Victor’s doing selfishly, but it’s also something Victor does for him.

“Thank you,” Yuri whispers as he pulls back and kisses Victor on the cheek. He wants Victor to _know_ , to feel that Yuri knows what Victor did and loves him for it. He wraps his hands tightly around Victor and melds himself to him.

Between them, against Yuri’s leg, Victor’s dick is soft.

Yuri feels like a complete cunt for taking advantage.

“I’ve had a terrible day,” Victor says. “It’s not your fault.”

Yuri wonders if it makes him a bad person that he wants to believe it. “When you say things like that,” he tries, “do you say it ‘cause you think it’s something I’d like, or ‘cause it’s actually true?”

“Yes,” Victor rumbles in the dark and pulls him close to his chest.

 

Victor ends up sleeping sprawled on his back, with his arms and legs spread every which way. Yuri listens to him snore, one hand cradling a coil of tiny, sleeping kitten.

So, apparently, they’re doing this.

Yuri would have liked it to be different. Would have wanted Victor to be into _him_ more than he's into placating his own neuroses. 

But it is what it is. 

_There’s worse things to do in retirement than Victor_ , he thinks as he falls asleep.


End file.
